Bloodied Scalpels
by Ghost-Tongued
Summary: NATHAN/SHILO; based on the "30 Distractions" challenge.
1. Chapter I

**Title: **Bloodied Scalpels  
**Author: **ShadowDemon-Gengar  
**Character Pairings: **Shilo/Nathan (Repo!Nathan)  
**Genre: **Romance/Drama/Horror  
**Rating: **T-MA+  
**Warnings: **Incest, Gore, Profanity  
**Disclaimers: **I own nothing _REPO! The Genetic Opera_  
**Summary: **LJ's "30 Distractions" challenge for the Shilo/Nathan pairing.

**Recommendation(s):** Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

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**Author's Note:** I can't tell you how much I obsess over this pairing; more than Shiloh/Graverobber, really. I seriously could not pair Nathan off with anyone else – not even Marni. There is just something about the tragic father and his desperation to keep Shiloh with him forever and away from the evils and corruption of the world that makes their pairing one of a kind. The last scene in the movie had me nearly crying . . . and as a friend said, it made the possibility of such a pairing very believable.

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**Distraction XII: Sleep-Deprivation**

"Shilo . . . ?"

She looked up when she heard the soft, pained murmur, her hands pausing in the small basin of cool water. She felt her heart clench with emotion, her father moving restlessly in the middle of the massive bed, its thick, patterned covers pulled up to his shoulders. His pale, aged features were flushed with a fever, expressing misery and utter exhaustion, his light green eyes heavy and dazed and slightly anxious, searching the room for her as he struggled to surface from the Zydrate-induced sleep.

She quickly wrung out the washcloth and moved toward the bed. "It's okay, Daddy . . . I'm right here." She climbed onto it and crawled toward him, mindful to move carefully so as to not jostle his body.

She smiled softly when he eventually relaxed back into the pillows, his distress and confusion easing. She began dabbing the damp cloth against his forehead, wiping away the beaded sweat from his temples. She could feel his heavy gaze on her, but she refused to meet it. She knew what she would see harbored in them: sorrow and self-loathing; a desperate need to apologize for all that had been done to her . . .

And she wanted him to. She wanted him to _beg_ her for forgiveness because she deserved it, damnit . . . but she didn't want to deal with it right now. For now, she just wanted to pretend that . . . nothing had happened; that she hadn't been lied to; that she hadn't been betrayed by the one person she had loved and trusted unconditionally.

Her lips thinned, and she fought against the hot tears stinging her eyes and blurring her vision.

The cloth was slid over his brows and cheeks; along his jaw and down the side of his neck. She gently tugged at the covers, pulling them down to expose the strong, bare chest that was tightly wrapped in fresh, white bandages.

She hummed quietly, the sound gentle and comforting as she pushed at his unbuttoned, flannel shirt until it lay open and wide, offering her better access to his fever-warmed skin.

She drew the cool, wet cloth down the front of his throat, along the solid ridge of his collarbone, and then back up the side of his neck.

Her fingertips smoothed softly through his short, unkempt hair, her humming a sweet, soothing melody in the silent, dimly-lit bedroom.

His eyes fluttered closed again and he breathed a shaky, heavy sigh before willingly falling back under the effects of the pain-killing drug.

When his breathing regulated into a deep, steady rhythm, she drew her hands away and sat back, watching him.

It was so cruelly ironic. _She_ used to be the one who needed care – used to be the one weak and vulnerable and always in need of protection, and _he_ used to be the one who always gave it . . .

_'Even though he's the reason why you're so weak and vulnerable . . .'_

The whispering thought was like a cold splash of water to her face. She squeezed her eyes shut, restrained tears finally breaking free to roll down her cheeks. Her throat burned from the searing knot and she bit back a small sob, her heart wrenching.

And now here they were . . . her father bedridden and struggling to recover from his injuries – struggling against his fevers –and her, always at his side, feeding him, bathing him, clothing him, changing his bandages and monitoring his wounds, and calming him whenever he woke, delirious and upset.

Wiping the tears away and sniffling, she opened her eyes again and breathed a shaky sigh. She gazed absently down at the taut bandages hugging his rising and falling chest. She tentatively brushed fingers over them, knowing that just beneath lay the line of stitches from his surgery, having been cut open to remove the bullet that had _just_ missed his heart . . . the bullet that had _nearly_ stole him away.

". . . What're you doing, little girl?_"_

She breath caught and she snatcher her hand back, as if she had been brutally scalded. She fell back, her eyes widening as they locked with the suddenly malevolent, calculative green eyes regarding her intensely. There was a malicious smirk on his lips, giving him an almost demonic appearance.

"Like touching Daddy, do you?"

She swallowed hard, scooting back farther, fear running ice-cold through her veins.

He was back again. The assassin. The Repo Man.

The monster.


	2. Chapter II

**Title: **Bloodied Scalpels  
**Author: **ShadowDemon-Gengar  
**Character Pairings: **Shilo/Nathan (Repo!Nathan)  
**Genre: **Romance/Drama/Horror  
**Rating: **T-MA+  
**Warnings: **Incest, Gore, Profanity  
**Disclaimers: **I own nothing _REPO! The Genetic Opera_  
**Summary: **LJ's "30 Distractions" challenge for the Shilo/Nathan pairing.

**Recommendation(s):** Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

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**Author's Note:** Freaking wow. Much thanks for the reviews! I've never felt so pressured to do my best before, and I know I've quite a few people I want to convert into Nathan/Shilo supporters. The opinions actually had me re-do this second chapter because I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off about my version of Repo!Nathan. Not to mention that it's difficult as shit to write Shilo. I'm trying to keep her naïve and vulnerable while tossing in a new sense of rebelliousness. Please, don't hesitate to tell me off if this starts turning out bad.

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**Distraction XXIV: Out of Place**

She had always sensed that there was something off about her father – something eerie and out of place – and that feeling had only intensified the older she became, the strangeness having grown into a nastiness; a horribleness. Like a stain that only seemed to darken and spread out over time.

And it had only been on that terrible night at the Opera House that she had learned that her father was . . . ill.

"Go away . . . ," she whispered, eyes wide as absently scooted farther down the bed, her heart pounding.

He continued to leer at her, his winter-green gaze glinting with something cruel as he tracked her every movement. A light eyebrow lifted, and he cocked his head slightly in the surrounding pillows.

"'Go away'?" His was voice raspy and gravelly and so unlike her father's gentle, soothing one. His mouth took on a tilt, but his eyes held no amusement as he drawled, "Make me."

The blatant dare was like a dig at her still fresh, emotional wounds, reminding her that she was still not in control, even when she deserved to be.

There was a bit of bite in her words as she glowered at the stranger inhabiting her father's body. "Who are you? Why are you here?"

A slight smirk. "I'm your father."

"_You_ are _not_ my father!"

"No?"

"No!" She glared at him, unconsciously gripping the bed covers in her small fists, her heart beating harder with anger. "You're not my father! Y-You have to be – no, you _are_ the reason why he did . . . did all those things. You're the reason why he's been poisoning me; why he lied to me about Mom an-and Blind Mag and R-Rotti Largo; why he kept his Repo life a secret from me, making me believe that he was . . . was actually _helping_ people – not _killing_ them!_"_

Her chest was burning, her emotions running high between hate and anger and hurt confusion. For the two whole weeks she had been taking care of him, she had spent her time trying to come up with reasons to justify or explain her father's conduct, but the most plausible one could put together was this. . . this _illness_ of his. It just wasn't _possible_ for her father to do all those unspeakable acts and . . . be of sound mind!

. . . Right?

Tears scorched the corners of her eyes, but she rebelled from them fall. She found comfort in glaring at the man appearing almost lazy and at home in her father's bed, lounging there against the thick pillows and in her father's open shirt – in her father's skin.

His cool-green gaze was unblinking – studying her.

A cold chill crawled up her spine, and she felt suddenly naked under the hard, scrutinizing stare.

But she met it straight on, despite how much she just wanted to hide from it. She _wasn't_ going to be afraid of him. _He_ was the one bedridden, here. _He_ was in a state of vulnerability.

Then, there was a twitch of his lips, and he seemed to relax deeper into the pillows, saying in a snide tone, "Fishing for excuses to give Daddy, _precious?_"

She sucked in a breath, her eyes flaring indignantly as she demanded again, her words shaking slightly as she fought against the need to hit him, "Who _are_ you? We can't you just leave us alone?"

For a moment, he just continued to stare at her, appearing almost thoughtful. Then he replied, his voice rough and raspy. "I'm the emotions your daddy keeps buried; the memories that he wishes to forget; the needs he has denied himself for seventeen years." A sickening, almost grim smirk tugged at his lips. "But I'm not the reason behind the decisions he makes."

Her lips thinned stubbornly as his words hung in the air. An instant sense of understanding tried to rise in her mind, but she slammed it down – refused to accept it. She didn't _want_ to understand. If she understood, then it would mean . . . it would mean that her father truly had been aware of what he'd been doing. She didn't want to believe it, she didn't! Her father was a wonderful, loving man who cared and worried about her; always at her beck and call . . .

A pained growl had her snatched from her thoughts and she looked up in time to see him trying to push himself into a sitting position.

"Don't!" she gasped, her hand instinctively reaching out to stop him, but she quickly recoiled back, remembering that this was _not_ her father . . .

He paused and glanced at her with a sneer. It effectively reminded her of why she felt so uneasy whenever her father got upset . . . Because beneath that calm and collective resolve of his lurked an untamed beast ready to wreck havoc and horror . . .

"Y-You're still healing . . . ," she explained, swallowing hard. "If you, you know, move too much, you might . . . tear the stitches . . ." This less-than-sane, brutal man was sharing her father's body . . . and she didn't want him doing anything careless during its much needed time to heal.

His unwavering gaze seemed to sharpen and become aware of something . . . and she repressed a shudder, the hair on the back of her neck rising. What was about this man that . . . made her so uncomfortable? She could practically _feel_ the darkness oozing off of him . . .

He reluctantly eased himself back into the pillows, shifting lazily and settling deeper into them, a small smirk playing at his lips.

". . . Thank you," she mumbled, finally dropping her eyes from his, feeling a bit of relief. If he hadn't complied . . . really, what could she have done? Her father was much taller and heavier than her, and possessed muscle strength that was frightening.

". . . You look just like her," came the rumbling voice that _wasn't_ her father's, and it sounded thoughtful – even a bit amused.

She dared to look up again.

Something almost . . . unholy was set in those light green eyes; a glint of something that made her skin crawl.

"Who . . . Mom?" she inquired softly, figuring that that's what he was talking about. Everyone told her so. Dad, Rotti Largo, Blind Mag, Graverobber –

She gasped, her gaze flying up at the wall clock.

Ten after eleven.

Graverobber!

She flew off the bed and quickly went around the room cleaning up – emptied the basin, shoved ropes of used bandages in the nearby trash bin, picked up dirty laundry and dumped them the hamper in the corner – God, she forgot that they was harvesting tonight!

"What are you doing?"

She paused near the medical tray sitting at the foot of the bed, glancing up at the clearly annoyed expression on her father's – no, not her father's – face.

Her fingertips brushed over the syringe lying amongst the rolls of bandages, gauze and bottles of sanitizing alcohol. The cylindrical glass was smooth and cool to the touch, its liquid contents glowing a bright, alluring blue.

She picked it up, clenching it tightly as she forced herself to move closer to the head of the bed where danger and brutality eyed her.

"I have to go to . . . um, work," she murmured, keeping her gaze steady on his. "And you need to get some rest."

A sardonic smirk crossed his lips, his voice rough. "You can call me Nathan, _sweetheart_."

She nearly dropped the syringe, first shocked. Then she felt her blood boil slowly as she stood over him. There was a wickedness in his eyes as he stared up at her.

Tossing out her wariness, she angrily grabbed his arm and stuck the steel needle with practiced ease into the soft tissue of the crook of his elbow, ignoring the grunt and raspy laugh, and she squeezed the prescribed Zydrate into his veins.

"You're _not _my father," she reminded him firmly as he fell victim to the immediate effects of the drug, drifting back to sleep.


	3. Chapter III

**Title: **Bloodied Scalpels  
**Author: **ShadowDemon-Gengar  
**Character Pairings: **Shilo/Nathan (Repo!Nathan)  
**Genre: **Romance/Drama/Horror  
**Rating: **T-MA+  
**Warnings: **Incest, Gore, Profanity  
**Disclaimers: **I own nothing _REPO! The Genetic Opera_  
**Summary: **Rotti Largo's death has marked a time for change, but change isn't something that happens in a day – unless you're Shilo Wallace. Between her mentally unstable father bedridden and needing her attention day in and day out, a notorious grave robber as her employer, and corrupt men seeking to steal the crown of GeneCo, Shilo's beginning to regret ever being curious about the world.

**Recommendation(s):**  
_Page Width: _Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

_Light/Dark:_ This chapter is best read on the **dark** background setting because it deals with nighttime and dark thoughts.

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**Author's Note:** Just wanted to say sorry for the long, _long_ wait, and that you need to know that the feture updates will probab;y just take as long. I just want to work now on one of the novels I've been piecing together for months now. :] Thank you _all_ for the awesome, positive and detailed reviews! (I also want to say to my latest reviewer that the plan was to show both sides of Nathan evenly. ;])

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**Chapter Three**

"_It ain't no trick to get rich quick. If you dig, dig, dig with a shovel or a pick, in a mine! In a mine! In a mine! In a mine, where a million diamonds shine!"_

She paused over her selected corpse, the needle of the syringe stuck up its nostril, her hand poised and ready to extract the natural chemicals inside. Blinking, she lifted her head and peered over the rough edge of a tombstone . . . and watched as her 'boss' jigged over his own corpse, jubilantly singing and whistling as he 'mined' the body of its value.

A snort of laughter bubbled up before she could stop it. How disturbing was it to sing a Disney tune and dance as you desecrated graves and pillaged the rotting bodies they harbored?

She ducked a little, smiling, when he stopped and glanced over his shoulder, a smirk riding his darkly painted lips. She heard amusement in his voice when he called out to her.

_"You almost done, kid?"_

"Almost," she replied, her breath puffing out into the freezing air as her small smile slipped, and she turned back to the job at hand.

She bit her lower lip, grimacing as she slowly pulled on the syringe's plunger, the glass cylinder immediately filling with beautifully luminous, blue liquid.

She gave the needle a little jerk to free it and she sat back in the damp, freshly dug up dirt from the grave, staring down at the full syringe, slowly rolling it back and forth in her gloved hands, its glowing contents taunting her – reminding her.

Zydrate . . . the story of her life, really. As well as the irony.

Here she was, harvesting the very thing that was fed to her every day for the last seventeen years by the one man who was supposed to care for her and protect her. Instead, he poisoned her – thinned her blood – and made her an unwilling addict to the substance.

Now she was assisting one of the very men who distributed the very same drug to others while trying tp overcome her savage withdrawals of Zydrate, day in and day out.

God, could things get anymore twisted and turned around?

"Hey, kid, you feeling okay?" murmured a deep voice above her. "Do you need your . . . er, 'medicine'?"

She tilted her head back, smiling a little up at her boss, her gaze meeting the ocean-blue eyes staring down at her. He was leaning over the tombstone, gloved fingers braced against the rough stone, his pale features expressing a bit of concern as he absently tucked away three vials of newly withdrawn Zydrate.

Sighing, she looked away again, murmbling, "No, I'm okay. Just . . . never mind. Here."

She gathered up her little stockpile of gently glowing vials, the smooth glass clinking against one another and sounding almost sweet and melodious, and then offered them up to him.

He picked them from her hands carefully, almost lovingly, his bout of worry wiped away the second his eyes landed on her night's reaping. A pleased grin spread across his strong, male features and he lifted his hands to the velvet-black night sky, allowing the silver moonlight to spear through the vials and enhance beauty of the liquid's natural glow.

"Damn, you're becoming quite a natural," he murmured, seemingly entranced by the graveyard's treasures.

She smiled shyly, huddling deeper into the heavy leather, fur-lined coat he had given her two nights before, having smoothly said, _"Getting colder these days. Consider this a gift for all the help you've been, kid."_

She absolutely adored it. Not because it was something great – it was anything but. It was overly large, stained in spots by something she didn't care to know about, the faux fur was discolored and coming off in small patches, the hems were ragged, and it smelled a bit mildewed.

But it was incredibly warm and she had already grown attached to it – it was from her first real friend, a friend who actually seemed to care, if only a little bit.

"Well, I think we're done here," he announced offhandedly, busily, strapping her night's share of vials to his thigh. "Time for me to do my rounds and for you to get back to your old man."

"Yeah . . . " she murmured, feeling her heart drop a little, and she pushed herself to her feet and patted the dirt off her pants.

_I don't want to go home . . ._ She instantly felt ugly and horrible. Her father needed her . . . no matter how much she still burned to just hate him and leave him to survive on his own. She was frightened of his other more vicious personality and she was still crying herself to sleep because of the anguish of the betrayal his true personality had caused her.

She just couldn't stand looking at him . . . at least, not look at him and not be assaulted by a horrid torrent of cruel, dark emotions.

_"Kid? You coming or what?"_

She blinked and looked up, seeing the multicolored-hair street pirate across the moonlit cemetery, leaning against the open, iron-wrought gate, a small frown pulling at his dark lips.

"Sorry!" she called, a blush warming her cheeks, and she started toward the entrance, deftly maneuvering around slanted and cracked headstones, mounds of grave dirt and various litter.

And with each step she made, she felt a weight in her chest seemingly grow heavier and almost intolerable.

She _really_ didn't want to go home . . .

* * *

_Disgusting, unsightly little Italians_, he thought, his genetically-altered, stone-gray eyes cold and glittering with malice despite the charming smile sitting on his lips as he analyzed the false heirs to the world's savior, GeneCo.

"_Boujour_, _Mademoiselle_ Sweet." He swept low into an elegant bow, the length of his thick, black ponytail slipping over a shoulder as he peered up at the trio behind the dark, heavy mahogany-wood desk, a touch of arrogance seeping into his smile. When he straightened, he gave a polite nod in the directions of the males standing on either side of the surgically beautified woman. "_Messieurs_ Luigi Largo _et_ Paviche Largo."

"Who the fuck are _you?"_ spat the deceased Rotti's eldest son, his narrow features twisted up into a sneer.

"No need to be so crass, _mon ami_," he coolly responded, his smile freezing on his mouth as an ugliness began to churn just beneath, wanting to twist his lips into a snarl. "Allow me to introduce myself: _Juis sui_ Dionte Adolphus, founder and _président_ of _Artillerie D'anatomie_, or Anatomy Artillery. We advertise and manufacture –"

"Bio-weaponry," Luigi rudely interrupted, looking insultingly unimpressed as he idly fingered the tip of his knife.

He felt a tick in his jaw as he ground his teeth together, his voice low with forced patience, "… _Oui_. Extensive, highly successful redesigning of the skeletal _et_ muscle structure to include technology and armaments. Advanced personal defense, if you will."

"That_-a_ is all well and good," the face-stealing son spoke lightly, his stainless silver, gem-encrusted mirror gripped daintily in a pale, slender hand as he regarded him through the empty sockets of the female face, "but what_-a_ does GeneCo have_-a_ to do with_-a_ you?"

"Yeah," the beautiful, surgery-addicted woman finally spoke, her voice cool and aloof. "What the hell do you want?"

He felt a tight, hot curling in his gut, his disgust becoming almost too much to keep contained. _Repulsive, hideous trolls!_

But he quieted his raging thoughts as a cold, calm air settled over him, his reflective-gray eyes unblinking. "I am here to buy GeneCo and make it a part of my own company."

He watched as the Largo children glanced at each other, as if silently speaking to one another, before their eyes fell back on him. And they erupted together in laughter.

"Get the fuck outta here!" Luigi howled, grinning maniacally.

"Whata comedian you_-a_ are, good sir." Pavi then turned his attention to his mirror, lifting it up and out, getting a better reflection of himself, clearly having dismissed him as anything further interesting.

"I'm not selling shit to you," Amber cooed, a falsely sweet smile on her dark crimson lips as she leaned her elbows onto the finely polished surface of the desk, resting her chin on her threaded fingers.

His own smile morph into something arrogant and confident before he wiped it away, a dramatic sigh falling from his lips and his shoulders dropping as he stared up at the shadowed ceiling. "Oh, but that is where we have a bit of a _problème_, _ma chère."_

He felt triumphant smolder slowly behind his serious, insincerely-concerned frown when the three's mirth practically died on the spot and they considered him suspiciously; warily.

He simply lifted a long, slender finger, wrapped in the black leather of his glove, and pointed it at them one at a time, his tone matter-of-fact as he spoke calmly, "Neither one of you are in the position of telling _moi_ what you will or will not sell . . . because neither of you are the true successors to this company."

_"What?!"_ Amber shrieked, her beautiful features contorting horribly as it curled into an ugly sneer, and she threw back her chair when she jumped up, slamming her palms down on the desk. "How _dare _you! I _am_ the heir!"

His demeanor remained collected, even when the hot-tempered Largo son tensed and started to round the desk, the blade of his knife glinting threateningly under the dim light, his sharp, long features expressing his infamous, easily provoked rage.

He flexed his fingers seemingly absently, but his knuckles emitted an ominous cracking sound that seemed to echo loudly off the high, dark walls. A soft whirring then accented the cool air.

His stone-gray eyes were still and unblinking on Luigi, even when the slender man paused at the corner of the desk, his sneer falling into a deep scowl, guarded awareness flashing in his ash-blue eyes.

Slowly, he drew his eyes from the man and swept them over the other two, his playfulness gone and seriousness having taken over as he growled lowly, a small snarl curling his lips and eyes narrowing. "_Non._ In fact, I did not come here to speak with either of you. I came here on the assumption that Shilo Wallace was here. The _legal_ beneficiary."

"That skank disappeared from existence. Everybody knows that," Amber hissed, her cat-like eyes narrowed into seething slits.

"Nevertheless, she is the heir, written specifically as such in your father's last will and testament. If she's not here, then I clearly must look elsewhere, _non?" _he inquired, smiling nastily at the glaring, quietly furious Largo offspring. "My business is obviously done here. _Au revoir, mes amis._"

Bowing low once more before straightening and turning on his heel, he strolled back toward the open elevator, haughtily flicking his long, swishing ponytail back over his shoulder, a snide smirk on his lips.

_Tiny-brained Italians. One way or another, this company is mine._


End file.
